


you're so bright, apollo's lost in jealousy

by fairydustskies



Series: band-aids for sentimental thoughts [2]
Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Gentle touches, Golden Boy Achilles, Just soft so soft, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, One Shot, Skateboarding, Teenagers, a whole lot of fun metaphors, because why not, i want what they have, insecure patroclus, skater achilles, somewhat poetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:54:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29770281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairydustskies/pseuds/fairydustskies
Summary: Self-degrading Patroclus meets Golden Boy Achilles on a fateful autumn night at the skate-park.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Series: band-aids for sentimental thoughts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139615
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	you're so bright, apollo's lost in jealousy

**Author's Note:**

> i couldn't get skater achilles out of my mind so i made this. that's all really, it's all very self-indulgent so enjoy some nice fluff !! <3

It was quiet at the skatepark.   
Not even the chirping of insects was disturbing the silence that engulfed the night. The moon hung like a lantern in the starless sky, dripping white moonlight on to the black pavement.   
Patroclus sat with his arms on the skate-ramp’s railing, legs hanging off the dip of the cement. He liked the peace of the night, it reminded him of home. It wasn’t a very fond memory but he found relaxation in knowing he was far from his father. Truthfully, It was all coincidental that he should stumble upon this skatepark. The night had seemed so peaceful, so restful, that Patroclus felt guided to where he currently sat.   
Yet, suddenly, came the gentle scratching of skateboard wheels on cement. There, nearing closer and closer, was a boy, no older than Patroclus (roughly seventeen) with the ends of his white muscle-tank-top waving gleefully in the autumn night. He looked like the sun himself, golden hair so bright it seemed to gleam under the moonlight, he looked like a golden boy in every sense of the word and Patroclus knew deep down that was true. His skin shone in the night as if it had been kissed by stars, eyes blue as day’s sky with a gleam that spoke of bright futures and high expectations. As those infinite blue eyes landed on Patroclus, he straightened, almost too embarrassed to be caught slouching in front of such a presence. It was the feeling of needing to be more than what he was that grappled Patroclus, the feeling that this golden boy would only look at the prettiest of silvers, that coppers and bronzes were so uninteresting to him, Patroclus needed to become that silver spade. Truthfully told, Patroclus felt quite a lot like coal rather than silver, yet he somehow grabbed the courage to speak. 

“Aren’t you cold?”   
The question earned a curious, slight-furrow of the golden boy’s eyebrows and Patroclus inwardly cringed at the question, at how sincere he sounded despite only meeting this boy for seconds. He hated how his voice had sounded sure, too sure. It was just like him to care for people he hadn’t yet met. A bad habit that rarely had gracious outcomes. 

The cold wind whipped through them, filling the space between the pair like an invisible cape, an uncrossable chasm. Yet, the golden boy crossed through the wind, flicked up his skateboard into his hand and walked to where the skate-ramp’s curve blended into the ground. He looked up at Patroclus, silver moonlight turning liquid in his eyes. 

“I quite like it,” said the golden boy. “Reminds me I’m alive.” 

Patroclus almost laughed at the answer. Truly, a typical golden boy line. Poetic enough, flirtatious enough, educated enough. Enough. The word seemed to belong to him, somehow Patroclus knew that. Whatever that meant was beyond him but this boy was enough, one way or another. 

“Very nicely said, Romeo,” teased Patroclus. His voice was quiet against the wind. He hated that. 

“You look quite cozy up there,” said the boy. He seemed to ignore how Patroclus’ voice had wavered, as if he had swallowed the wind itself. “Mind if I join you?” 

“I’m sure there’s space for two.”   
How long, Patroclus wondered, how long would it take for this golden boy to spot the coal beneath Patroclus’ faux silver? 

“So, Romeo,” conversed Patroclus, an opening line to their conversation and their second meeting that week. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, half-heartedly shining upon them. Golden Boy, as per usual, was shining beside Patroclus, an emblem of what it meant to be bright. “Still alive?” 

Golden Boy shot him a smile, blindingly wide, as he flicked up his skateboard for the second time that week. His golden curls rested in locks just below his earlobe and Patroclus wondered how they would feel against his fingertips. 

“Still alive, still living,” said Golden Boy. He jogged a bit ahead, twisting to face Patroclus as he continued to nearly skip backwards. “And I’m your Romeo now, am I?” 

Patroclus laughed, the sound an aftermath of a failed attempt at hiding his amusement. A mixture of a laugh and an exhale. 

“Only because I don’t know your name.” 

“Isn’t that the beauty of being nameless? No expectations, no familial acknowledgements, just pretty nicknames with endless possibilities.” Golden Boy turned to face the direction he was walking in and his hair twirled like curled ribbons in the breeze. Patroclus’ lips tugged upwards despite himself. “Yet, I’ll restrain the possibilities.” 

He turned his head to glance at Patroclus, releasing the skateboard and mounting it. A small smile ghosted his heavenly features. 

“I’m Achilles.” 

Achilles, just like his name, was a triumphant thing to hear.   
The sliding of his wheels against unmerciful concrete, the thumping of his skateboard as he did tricks and moves that Patroclus had never before seen, the cries of pure adrenaline-laced glee that spewed from his mouth like music; it was hypnotizing.   
That familiar sound of wheels on cement came closer as Achilles rode up the slope to where Patroclus sat, grabbing the railing and letting his skateboard crash down with a clatter from beneath his feet. He swang up to sit on the railing, feet planting on the floor next to Patroclus before ultimately sitting down next to him. 

“How was I?” asked Achilles. Sweat beaded at the edges of his forehead, glistening like drops of morning dew on the prettiest of petals. 

“Golden,” said Patroclus. He was golden; the sun in a corporal form. “Like Apollo.”   
Achilles laughed, a sound like the rushing of a spring’s water splashing on rocks. It sounded like sea-kissed summer nostalgia and Patroclus was drowning in it. 

“Fuck.”   
Patroclus hissed sharply as the rubbing alcohol touched the cuts on his skin. Achilles tightened his grip on Patroclus’ hurt hand; it was loose yet firm, the most gentle and stern the Golden Boy had been towards Patroclus since they had met. After the longest, almost unbearable amount of time, Achilles had finally, one way or another, touched Patroclus. Call him touch-starved or anything of the sort but Patroclus couldn’t ignore the tingling of his skin, like sparkling water, under Achilles’ fingers. Yet, Patroclus couldn’t relish it for long. Soon, the stinging of the alcohol met his cut skin again and he flinched back with a salient inhale. 

“You need to stop moving,” Achilles said. His voice was laced with concern, the pointed-edge that would normally engrave another’s tone was nonexistent with him.   
Patroclus looked up from where he painfully eyed his hand, eyes immediately locking on Achilles’ concentrated expression, the curve of his eyebrows, the sharp frown lines sprouted from intense attention, his set jaw and how his tongue occasionally swiped over his bottom lip. Patroclus looked back down. 

“It fucking stings,” he responded. This wound was deeper, a large scrape against rock. Patroclus screwed his eyes closed as Achilles wiped it, biting his lip when it got particularly uncomfortable. 

“You should’ve just held on to me when I told you to,” teased Achilles. Patroclus opened his eyes only to roll them, making a show of it to Achilles who let an amused quirk of his lips slip across his face. 

“It didn’t seem to be that complicated.” 

That earned Patroclus a laugh, loud and boisterous, utterly amused, utterly beautiful. The sound made Patroclus smile, as he always did when Achilles laughed, and he ducked his head so the smile on his face wouldn’t be seen. 

“An ollie didn’t seem complicated?” asked Achilles. Patroclus didn’t even have to look up to see the raise of his eyebrow, he could hear it in Achilles’ tone. 

“Not when you did it,” argued Patroclus. The smile was still stitched on to his face and he knew Achilles could hear it seep into his voice. 

“You’re a lost cause.”   
Patroclus finally looked up. Achilles was smiling, the barest upturning of his lips, so sweet it was honey on gold. The sun melted like butter on the wooden floor of Patroclus’ room, kissing their skin.   
Achilles’ touch was soft as he placed colorful band-aids on Patroclus’ hand, wrapping them around the latter’s fingers, on the edges of his palm and the skin below his thumb. It was delicate, like glass, the way Achilles held Patroclus, as if holding a prized gift. Patroclus felt like silver underneath the golden boy’s touch; needed, treasured, and, dare he say, beloved. 

Achilles released Patroclus’ hand once the last red and yellow band-aid had been applied, setting it gently on the floor between them. The golden boy met Patroclus’ eyes, blue sea meeting alkaline green; the crystal blue shine of sun-hit waters upon waving algae.   
Achilles, once-triumphant Achilles, reached to Patroclus with a careful hand, fingers nearly limp with caution. They fluttered upon Patroclus’ mahogany skin, chin to temple, a touch so brief, it felt nearly imaginary until they reached Patroclus’ cheek and settled. Like the thawing sun, Patroclus melted at the feeling of Achilles’ skin against his; the sensation of a gentle, calloused hand against cold skin. Achilles held the same type of warmth as the sun and it seeped into Patroclus’ autumn-chilled skin. Even in such a gentle state, Achilles was triumphant for Patroclus had lost, he had lost himself in him. 

“Patroclus.”   
His voice said his name with such longing, fragile as an exhale of smoke, fragile in a way Patroclus had never imagined could come from him. From such a decided, fluorescent adolescent.   
Yet, it came again, Patroclus’ name in a soft exhale of letters from Achilles’ lips. It sounded like poetry, it sounded like the rawest form of a confession.   
“Patroclus.” 

Patroclus wound his hand in Achilles’ hair.   
His fingers weaved through the curls, soft as cashmere against his skin.   
Patroclus smiled. He had to admit, he loved who he was when he was with Achilles. He felt like silver, he quite nearly felt like gold. 

“Can I kiss you?”   
The question was whispered, a ghost of a breath. It came from Achilles. The sure, concrete sincerity coating his voice made it seem as if all his high ambitions revolved around Patroclus. Patroclus felt so high, drunk and near levitating with expectation, heart pounding out of his chest as Achilles came closer. In the lazy haze, Patroclus’ voice was frail yet certain, something unknown even to himself. 

“Kiss me.” 

Lips on lips, Patroclus felt Achilles’ golden soul seep into him. He felt warmth, the comfort of a lazy Sunday’s sun, he felt unrealistic expectations shatter as easily as ice, he felt cowardice burying itself away from the pair of them, he felt infinite. Like a map of stars, like the orange horizon, Patroclus and Achilles were never-ending and under the golden boy’s solar touch, Patroclus finally felt like gold.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed !! comments really make my day so feel free to leave some if you want to !! take care and thank you so much for reading <3


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